A Many Splendored Thing
by EvanescingSky
Summary: A short examination of the relationship between France and Ireland. She would never speak her affection aloud-their alliance was purely for military reasons. For his part, it took him half a century to even realize she was human too.


Just a little story about my new OTP-FraIre. Historically, it works. The French-Irish brigade was a real thing. In fact, many victories attributed to France could not have been won without the support of the valiant, take-no-prisoners Irish soldiers. Check it out.

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><p>A Many Splendored Thing<p>

Ireland's love for France was a many-splendored thing. It was soft and gentle as a rose petal, capable of showing the utmost care and sweetness through wordless gestures to her ally. It was fierce as a mother lion, ready at any moment to leap up and defend her charge tooth and nail 'til the end, if duty called her to. It was unchanging-no matter what the case, her love for France stood strong and tough, calling her to trudge through rain and mud with no shoes, her kilt billowing around her knees gone purple with cold and to rally her troops even in the face of impossible battles. But it was also a tender thing, prone to bleeding and bruising quite easily. As such, it was flexible in its ability to melt into the shadows and make itself invisible as long as necessary-but it never left.

She never spoke of her love aloud. The only way to glimpse it was in her unwavering loyalty to France and the way she knew him, took care of him, even on the battlefield. So loathe was she to burden him with words of her affection, she managed every time she felt her heart leap to remind herself of the futile nature of her love and turn the mood into a sorrowfully ponderous one.

France, for his part, found it hard to speak to her of love and affection for the simple reason that it had taken him half a century to think of her as a human being. Even amongst Europeans, the Irish were something lower, some kind of animal. France had treated her as an exotic pet-something that helped him greatly and interested him, but not a real person. And he was ashamed.

It echoed in everything they did which grew intimate-when he treated her wounds or braided her hair or even looked into her eyes for too long. He would pull away and he began to realize she was perhaps the only woman in the world to whom he was afraid to speak of love. Even to his precious Jeanne, he had shamelessly declared "Je t'aime!" on more than one occasion. She'd smile that enigmatic smile and remind him, "Yes, Francis, but you can only ever love me as a daughter or a friend."

He knew that. He cared too much for her to force her into anything she didn't want.

And so, it wasn't spoken of. But it was there, particularly from her. France was confused as to how he felt-it could be lust or just fascination with a creature unlike anything he had known before. She accompanied him to court and looked like nothing more than a most displaced peasant, ignorant of even the basic courtesies of the French court. And yet her wit kept pace with the best of his courtiers-she was a mystery to him. She would bind his wounds as carefully as though he were one of her dear brothers and let him cry onto her shoulder when he needed to or rest his head in her lap to sleep out in the field…but she did all this with an expression of distant grief in her eyes. She never spoke to him with the tenderness she showed with her hands. He recalled she had had a saint as well-Patrick. He wondered for the first time what Patrick had meant to her. If he had been anything like Jeanne was to France.

The derision suffered by the Irish was another part of her reasoning for keeping quite. Despite her bright pride and fiery temper, she had begun to see herself as something less. Why could she fight so beautifully out here and lose so horribly back home? It crossed her mind that perhaps God meant for her people to be subjugated. This led to such black thoughts that she made every effort to stave off its' very contemplation.

To speak out of turn was disrespectful-everyone in the army knew this. To Ireland, voicing her love to France was speaking out of turn in the grossest way. He was her commanding officer. Technically, they both controlled their own armies, but as she fought for France on the mainland, he held the power to command her to anything. This was twofold-her sense of honor forbade her from abandoning or disobeying him and her love bound her to his side regardless of the impossibility of the task.

He asked her several times from whence her unflagging loyalty came from, especially in fights that weren't hers to have. Her reply was always one of two:

"If I did not fight, I would be a coward."

"If I abandoned you now, I would be disloyal."

And if he pressed her, she might offer up a sentence or two more:

"It gives my men pride to fight and win. If we cannot do so in our home, we will do so in the mainland. Perhaps we will earn allies who will help us in our turn." These lines she always delivered as crisply and emotionlessly as a good solider should, straight-laced as ever.

There was only one compensation Ireland allowed France to make her. He once offered to show her how to braid her hair in the French style for battle and she found herself frustratingly unable to do it. At last she conceded to let France do it for her and perhaps it was this that thwarted all her attempts to learn…until she was alone again. So France braided her hair, but it wasn't this close contact that he enjoyed most with her. It was watching her take the braid out at the end of the day and comb those fiery tresses over her shoulder. It was the only consistent time he saw her take a breather and relax.

And yet, there were times when he saw her true self shine through cracks in her "General" façade, times when he truly thought she was his friend…

"It's cold out tonight," France said with a shiver, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and shifting on the fallen tree.

"Would you like me to fetch more firewood?" Ireland offered. Her feet were weary and her back sore from the day-long march and she wanted so badly to close her eyes…but she couldn't stop herself from offering. France peered at her face through the darkness, seeing what she tried so hard to hide-she was exhausted.

"No, that's fine. I was merely making conversation," he said. She nodded and took her seat on the fallen tree once more, holding her hands out to their meager fire. France shuffled his feet on the bed of fallen leaves.

"You did well today," he said awkwardly, the praise strange and out of place on his tongue, "keeping the men going and such. You set a good example for them." Ireland went into silent shock for a moment. France may have started to treat her a bit less like a fun pet and a bit more like a human but she was still bewildered by any compliments that came her way unrelated to his desire to sleep with her.

"Thank you," she choked out after several moments. "Are you sure you don't want me to go and get more firewood?" she added hastily, getting to her feet again.

"_Oui_. Sit, you need rest," France replied, bemused by her reaction and slightly guilty that it might be partly his fault. Reluctantly, she took her seat once more. They were silent for a long time, trying to warm themselves over the small fire.

"I think we should reach our destination by tomorrow evening, if we move fast," Ireland said after a while, tugging her green cloak tighter around her. France nodded.

"_Oui_, if we push the men, I too, think we can reach it by nightfall." Their breath billowed out in great clouds and the two shivered. Ireland tossed a few more sticks onto the fire, the last of their firewood supply.

"Hey France," Ireland said suddenly, a tiny smile creeping up on her face.

"_Oui?_"

"Today is New Year's Eve," she said, rubbing her arms. France looked at her for a long time before giving a cracked, rusty laugh.

"That it is, _mon amie_, that it is!" Their eyes met for a moment and they laughed again; a strained, weary sound. They needed so badly to relieve the stress of their position. France opened his mouth to say something and started laughing again.

"I guess we should both go find our top generals," Ireland snickered. "We need someone to kiss!"

"I could kiss…you…" France had begun the statement with his usual gustatory seduction, then seemed to recall to whom he spoke and trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

"You know, I may be Irish…" Ireland began, trying to salvage the conversation, "but if you kiss me, I'll castrate you." France laughed nervously.

"Indeed you would!" he said. They shared a short laugh and a long look. For a moment, France thought of leaning over and kissing her cheek, though he was too unsure of her reaction to try. Ironically, Ireland had the same thought, but was too afraid of ruining their friendship with an unwanted advance to try, quite aside from her continued attempts to deny any affection for France.

A long time passed in silence and France began to yawn, so Ireland offered to take first watch. France obliged her and lay down on the dank forest floor to sleep. Ireland took off her cloak and draped it over the shivering Frenchman, not meeting his gaze when he looked up in confusion. She didn't speak and neither did he, so he laid his head down again and drifted off. Ireland spent the three-fourths of the night covered in goose bumps, her lips turning blue with cold, but she didn't complain. It was better than being trapped in England's dungeon back home.

When France woke her the next morning, her eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, but nevertheless, she mounted her lethargic horse and rode into camp, calling her soldiers to arms. France watched her go, her hair falling like a curtain down her back and swaying with her motion. He wondered what drove her-why she really stayed. Was it truly all for honor? If it was, he thought that he could never match his soul to hers-she was something more.

As the years went on and their strange, multi-faceted relationship went on, France began to wonder if it was entirely moral to take Ireland's strongest soldiers away from her withering homeland. Eventually, the French-Irish brigade was dissolved and they went their separate ways. Ireland took her dismissal with grace and dignity, with the French promising they owed the Irish a debt they could never repay. Their praise of her and her soldiers' courage and skill was balm only for her wounded pride. She marched to the French coast with her generals and soldiers and boarded the boat home. It was only her top general, reaching out to knock upon the door to her private quarters, who heard her weep.

Thrown back into her own fight, Ireland was once more tossed into a sea which battered her ceaselessly against the cruel rocks of occupation and forced her into the worst of conditions along with a World War before she managed to free herself. Mostly. Upon freeing herself, she felt that she and France stood on somewhat equal ground now, but her rage over England's continued possession of her Northern six counties launched her into a civil war. Ireland herself supported those who wanted to reclaim the Northern six, but one painful fact remained: They did not possess the strength to fight England a second time. The victory they had was largely based on England's weariness with fighting following The Great War and their exhaustion with continually fighting Ireland for total dominance.

Thusly, she was forced to let it go. The Second World War rolled around and once again her chance was ruined. Such it passed that she retained her affection for France deep in her heart, but never once told him about it. At last, the world seemed to be as at peace as it would ever be and she thought she might have her chance. All that remained was what to say. After all, what does one say, to explain that one has been in love with a dear friend for almost five centuries?


End file.
